WILLIAM KLOEFKORN was named the Nebraska State Poet by
proclamation of the Unicameral in 1982. He is a professor of English at Nebraska
Wesleyan University in Lincoln. His many collections of poetry include Alvin
Turner as Farmer, Platte Valley Homestead, Uncertain the Final Run to Winter
(WindflowerPress), Drinking the Tin Cup Dry, Covenants, and a collection of fiction, A Time
to Sink Her Pretty Little Ship. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner,
Georgia Review, Poet & Critic, and elsewhere. New collections of poetry include
Among the Living (Sandhills Press) Welcome to Carlos (Spoon River Press), Loup
RiverPsalter (Spoon River). and Fielding Imaginary Grounders (Spoon River). In
addition to his many publications and honors, he won first-place in the 1978
Nebraska Hog-Calling Championship. He recently retired from Nebraska Wesleyan
University in Lincoln. His most recent is a collection of poems narrated through
the voice of a sergeant on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

Bill has worked dilligently to promote all of the arts in
Nebraska. He has participated in programs in schools, universities and prisons.
His sense of humor and unique style of teaching make him a popular guest
at poetry readings and festivals. Each summer bill is one of the Leaders of a
program that allows teachers to follow the route of Lewis and Clark.

THE MUSIC OF SILENCE AND SOUND

--while hiking Crane Hollow near Logan, Ohio

In a cluster of blueness the Quaker
Ladies

punctuate the hollow

with their delicate silence. To hear them
is to

listen to the names

of their brothers and sisters-­

hoverfly, hemlock, sandstone, Jesus
Christ

lizard, its body on water

smooth as the silky ant, the azure
butterfly,

the touch-me-not.

Ladies, just now I kneel on a damp

fecundity of ages

to give you the sound of my grandmother's

name: Myrtle. And the sound of the name

of the other: Anna. 0 how your silence,
Ladies, so

delicate, so blue,

underscores each syllable: Myr-tle. An-na. And

these:

wild crab, yellow violet, squirrel
corn,

adder's tongue, on its tip the sound
of

song: There blooms the lily of
the

valley, that bright and morning
star.

Ladies, into a damp
fe-cun-di-ty of ages

you have found your place, place

near where I kneel to learn the
far-flung art of

kneeling. Neglecta major: I believe
in
the

necessity of empty spaces. Dragon­fly and

damselfly: I believe in the chuckle
in
the throat of

the running stream. Myrtle and Anna: I
believe in

the growth that must be
happening above and

below and beyond the
sounds of your blue and

delicate and thus far immortal names.

William Kloefkorn

"Poetry doesn't belong to
those who write it, but to those who need it."
- Mario Ruoppola (Il Postino)